Memoirs of a Dragon
by redben2010
Summary: We all know that a soldier will often be given orders they will find boring if not completely mundane. But what if, upon clearing out an old house in lower parts of Whiterun, not only do they stumble upon an old book filled with possibly the worst penmanship they have ever seen, but the journal of the most famous hero of Skyrim!
1. Housekeeping

Housekeeping

* * *

"All that I'm trying to say, Brom, is that the jarl must have some task more suited to a couple of guardsman that does NOT include spending a day cleaning out some old house," Jürgen complained to his companion. "I mean really, have you ever heard the bards sing of honor being found amongst the dust and cobwebs of some damn shanty older than dirt!"

Brom's comrade continued to grouse about what the duties of a warrior should entail, leaving the older guard to struggle internally to keep his calm. It was this way with all the new bloods who had decided to join up with the Whiterun Guard and have a chance to raise a sword for the honor and safety of the hold. They would sooner or later come to realize that being a soldier wasn't all heroic battles, drunken celebrations, and a chance to maybe catch the eye of some lass that just so happened to fancy a man in uniform. Brom understood this, for he had felt the exact same way over thirty years ago when he had joined up with the guard, and wasn't too ashamed to admit that his reasons then were just as shallow as young Jürgen's now. Didn't mean he had to walk with the man and suffer his fucking chatter, though.

"Jürgen, please, for the sake of my nerves and whatever teeth you still have in your skull, _SHUT THE HELL UP!_" Brom practically roared, drawing more than a little attention from their immediate peers. They had just entered the Cloud District after leaving Dragonsreach, and were making their way through the throng to carry out their jarl's decree. Brom's little outburst had drawn the attention of more than a few of the citizenry, and though most had returned to what they had been doing previously, a few had to be glared off by the irritated guardsman. It was quite clear that he was fresh out of patience.

Jürgen stopped where he was, standing beside his elder and giving him an injured look that only made Brom want to strangle him that much more. "But come on, Brom, you have to agree, housekeeping was never discussed as one of the required duties of a guard. There's plenty of servants at the jarl's beck and call that he could have sent over to clean that dump up. Even if we aren't currently at war, we should still be fighting _something_, like bandits or monsters. By the Eight, I get any more damned bored I'll settle with wrestling a mudcrab bare-handed."

Brom glared at his subordinate, wondering idly if he would be sorely missed if he were to inexplicably disappear. Considering his so-called 'popularity' with the other guards, probably not likely. "Whether it's housekeeping, fighting bandits, or wrestling mudcrabs, your first duty and last duty as a guard is to follow any and all orders from up on high, and these came from Jarl Nelkir himself. So you will suck it up, keep your bloody complaints to yourself, and for Divine's sake start acting like a soldier!" At this the elder abruptly about faced, and marched off towards the direction of the Plains District.

Jürgen watched him for a moment before following, glaring petulantly at the ground, as if he could blame all of his woes upon the earth beneath his very feet. "Just saying, it's been about an age since anything exciting has happened. I mean, is something like a bandit raid or a troll attack really so much to ask for?" the younger man continued, disregarding his companion's growing irritation as they passed by Jorrvaskr, the famed home of the Companions. The structure's appearance was not dissimilar to that of a large boat turned upside down, sitting atop a small rise overlooking the Cloud District, standing as proudly as it had for over four thousand years. "I bet not a day goes by where the Companions don't have to charge off into battle with brigands, or delving into some ancient crypt to fight some Draugher", the young soldier said with a slightly envious edge to his voice.

Brom stopped, turning to examine Jürgen's expression, then turning his own attention towards the mead hall itself. Understanding the boy's envy, he then turned a small, slightly sympathetic smile towards his comrade. "I'm afraid that there is something as aiming a little too high in your ambitions, lad. The Companions are easily the most skilled and fierce group of warriors in all of Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel. No offense, but you'd be lucky to last the week with them. Best course for you is to just stick with regular soldiering for now."

Looking a little put out, the younger man continued to follow the older, as they made their way out of the Cloud District and into the Plains, passing by the many market stalls clustered in front of the local shops, including a general goods store and a alchemic supplier, Belethor's General Goods and Arcadia's Cauldron respectively. Brom smiled to himself, remembering back to the days when the stores' namesakes were still managing them. If he remembered right, the proprietors were now some little weasel of a Breton named Liel, who was supposed to be Belethor's nephew, and a Dunmer by the name of Risa straight from Morrowind.

Brom sighed to himself, trying to shake himself out of his reflections. He wasn't that old for a Nord, being only at forty-seven winters, but by the gods if he was getting there. Wouldn't be long now when his hair and beard would start to grey, he reckoned. Nowadays, thinking about his earlier years was becoming something of a hobby, lamenting how far things had changed since he was a lad. Like the fact that Belethor had died in the chaotic Battle of Whiterun almost thirty years ago exactly, or how old Arcadia, after having ran the Cauldron for the better part of forty years, had finally passed into the next life in her sleep about three years ago. Brom let out another sigh, this time attracting Jürgen's attention.

"What's ailing you, old man, did you hurt your back or something ," Jürgen piped up from behind Brom. "You're starting to look a bit down, and being truthful it's starting to bother me." Brom halted, turning an annoyed glance on the younger man, who at the moment looked about as smug as a bear cub who had just found a honey comb. Honestly, younglings these days. Not enough respect for their elders to rub between two damn fingers. Brom would have to remedy that.

"Oh no, lad, my back isn't what's bothering me. It's the incredible pain in my ass that is standing about three feet behind me that the jarl, in all his wisdom, chose to saddle me with that's the bother. So sorry it's getting to you too." Giving the young man a smug smile of his own, Brom turned about smartly and picked up where they left off on the path to their current destination.

Jürgen chuckled to himself from his place behind Brom, trying to keep up with the veteran's stride. Brom could nag and grouch with the best of the elders, but one couldn't help but admire the old soldier's brass. That, and considering what all the man had been through in his life, with the dragons reawakening, the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Battle of Whiterun, the Second Great War, and then the Dragonborn's eventual victory over Alduin, one couldn't help but envy him. Brom could complain all he want, but Jürgen had to admit that he was content that the jarl had appointed the older man as his mentor.

Their advance finally brought them to their destination, the front door of an old run down house sitting next door to War Maidens. Brom had told him all about how the place had been the home of some hot shot thane in the closing years of the 4th Era, back when he was a lad, but if he had told him that it had been built sometime during the 2nd, Jürgen would not have doubted him. Standing at two stories high, there was honestly not one part of it that wasn't covered in mold, lichen, vines, or all of the above. All of which giving dwelling the appearance of a large bush. He could barely make out the wood that was underneath all the brush, but what he could see appeared to be rotted and cracked beyond any attempt at repair.

"Well, here we are. In my day people around here called this place Breezehome, and I'm telling you lad, not a person in town couldn't help but admire her. Not as showy as the Battle-Born house or any of the houses up in the Cloud, but she has a strange sort of draw that really speaks to a true Nord," Brom said, running an almost affectionate hand over the aged door frame, slightly disturbing the foliage currently attached to it. Turning back to his follower, he inquires, "Well lad, ready to get this over and done with?"

"If I say no does this mean we can go to the Bannered Mare and drink ourselves stupid, maybe flirt with Frecs a little while I'm there?" Jürgen said, only slightly hopeful.

If glares could cut, Jürgen would probably have been picking what was left of his face up off the pavement. Brom turned back to the front door, his hand digging around in the pouch fastened at his belt, finally withdrawing a small iron key. Jürgen honestly couldn't see the sense in bothering with a key. Looked like all one had to do was lean up against the door and just let nature take its course.

Fiddling with the lock a moment, Brom finally managed to fit the key in and, after some more fiddling, unlocking the entrance. Giving the door a small push, it slowly swung inward, releasing a couple of decades worth of mold and rot scented foulness, giving both men pause. The light of day barely penetrated more than a foot within the entrance, leaving the rest of interior in an unwelcoming blackness. Both men shared a glance, now even Brom not caring much for the idea of walking in there.

"Well, experience before youth," Jürgen said, trying unsuccessfully to inch a bit further behind Brom. Rolling his eyes, the veteran caught the lad roughly by the scruff of his neck. Placing him forward, he shoved him none to gently over the threshold to sprawl somewhere within the confines of house, the boy grunting from the impact. Brom then straightened his own uniform and, smirking, proceeded inside. Menial housekeeping or no, he knew this was going to be an interesting assignment.


	2. Dusty Discoveries

**I am so sorry for the three month silent period. I swear I will try to do better in the future, with maybe weekly announcements on my profile page.**

**I do not own Skyrim.**

* * *

Dusty Discoveries

* * *

Jürgen groaned from where he laid, sprawled upon the floor of a dirty and rotted excuse for a kitchen area, and more than a little positive that a fair number of splinters had found their way into his jerkin and chainmail, promising him an evening's work to dig them all out. A soldier had to look somewhat professional, if at the very least presentable. Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, cursing the name of Brom under his breath, he swept his gaze to his immediate surroundings. And by Shor, one could not imagine a sorrier sight than this!

The lighting was still weak, even with the door wide open, but with what little there was Jürgen could easily tell that the room was about thirty feet from the door to the back wall and maybe twenty in width, and every square inch of available wall space stacked high with junk, broken furniture, or just plain garbage. There were a few rotted book cases in attendance, their shelves laden down with pieces of unrecognizable tidbits, a few damp and decaying books lined up and leaning on one another as if they were wounded comrades. A weapons rack at Jürgen's right sat broken and devoid of any weaponry better than an ancient excuse for a sword, now nothing more than a decrepit piece of iron laying on shattered wood.

There were stairs to his left, with a couple of old, cobweb covered chairs stacked one on another sitting just under it. And sitting at the bottom of the steps was a chest of drawers, the legs on its right having decayed and given out under the weight of its burden gods only knew how many years ago, leaving it with a permanent tilt. Next to it was an old wooden chest, the iron bands wrapped around its body covered in rust, leaving them with an angry reddish brown color. Jürgen could see the tiny holes along the sides of it, leaving him in no doubt what-so-ever of what kind of evil little vermin they were going to have to deal with. Rats, that's what every guardsmen needs to brighten their day, bloody rats.

Pushing himself to his feet while trying to brush down the front of his uniform, Jürgen turned to see Brom standing inside the threshold, taking a good look for himself of the house's innards, taking in all of its rotted and dust covered glory. He walked in, striding past his comrade to stop in front of the bookcase, picking up and examining what appeared to be an old metal bowl, or quite possibly a helm of some sort, there was just too much dust to know for sure. Setting it back down, his hands then moved to pick up a book next to it, only to have its binding to come apart in his hands, aged pages slipping through his fingers to fall on the floor.

"Well, this place has certainly seen better days," the old guard muttered, picking up the pages and replacing them back in the old binding, placing it back in its place on the shelf.

"The same could be said for you, I reckon," intoned Jürgen none to quietly, returning Brom's glare with a smirk.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK

Jürgen let out a very _manly_ squeak of surprise, tripping over himself at the sudden noise behind him. Trying to step back and grab his sword at the same time, he only succeeded in tangling it with his legs, sending him sprawling into the wall. His head met the wall with a resounding crack, driving the guard's skull straight through the other side, proving the strength of bone over rotted wood.

Brom had watched his young charge, having not moved so much as an inch from his place at the bookshelf since the sound occurred, marveling at Jürgen's apparent _ skill _athandling sudden noises. Shaking his head, the older man strolled over to the source of the disturbance, a pot sitting in the middle of what was once a fire pit in the middle of the kitchen area, having fallen off it's holding a long time ago. Having left Jürgen to find his own way out of the wall, Brom carefully removed the lid and peered inside.

Jürgen finally separated his head from the wall, shaking it to dislodge the many pieces of debris from his hair, rubbing irritably at the sore spot on top of his skull. Why in the Nine he had not thought to have brought his helm with him, he would never know. One does not usually expect to suffer head injuries during a clean-up assignment. Picking himself up off the floor with what little dignity was still left to him, he turned to see his mentor squatting over the old pot, grinning over at the younger man.

"Say, lad, when was the last time you ate today?" Brom inquired, all innocence and good intentions.

Jürgen eyed him dubiously, before answering, "Haven't really had anything more than some dry ham and a biscuit earlier, why?"

Brom crooked a finger, beckoning him over, all the while resting one hand on the pot's lid. "Well no wonder you're so damn gangly, lad. You need a bit more than that to properly fill out that uniform!" the older guard said, still grinning all the while.

Jürgen was pretty sure he didn't want to find out the source of this sudden concern for his health, but was also pretty sure Brom would just order him over if he didn't comply. Cautiously, he stepped over to where Brom was squatting , coming over to stand beside him. Brom then whisked the lid off with a flourish, revealing its contents to the younger man. And oh, how he _screamed_.

"Aiiiiiiieeeeeeeee!"

With a pitch that would put any young maid to shame, Jürgen squealed, tripping over his own feet to get away from the horror within the pot. Unfortunately for him, this all ended with him putting another head shaped hole in the wall, right beside the one from his earlier antics. Brom all but roared in laughter at the younger man's expense, barely able to breathe he was laughing so hard.

"Y-you want to fight bandits and w-wrestle mudcrabs, and yet you c-can't handle a few _rats_ in a pot!" the guard choked out, trying and failing to catch his breath.

Jürgen once again extracted himself from wall, glaring hatefully at his cruel commander, serving only to make the man laugh that much harder at his expense. Picking himself of the floor for the third time that _day_, he peered again into the pot, this time with a good six foot distance of safety between him and it. Like Brom had said there were indeed rats in there, a nursing mother with about six or seven babies at her side, but Jürgen was damned if he was going to get any closer to make a proper count.

Still chuckling to himself, Brom replaced the pot lid, leaving the mother rat and her young undisturbed, and then push himself up to his feet. Walking over, he placed a hand on his comrades shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You don't need to get your britches all in a bunch, lad, it's just a few rats. Worst they can do to you is make off with your little toe if you stand still long enough."

Jürgen ruefully shook off Brom's hand, making his way over to the stairs while making sure that his friend didn't catch the look of horror he directed at his feet. Alas, he couldn't see through his boots to make sure his toes were all there, but he was more than a little sure he hadn't been standing still long enough for the sneaky bastards to snatch one. Reassured, and with all of his digits, he proceeded to stomp up the stairs, leaving Brom and any other types of annoying vermin on the bottom floor.

"I'm starting up here, so you can stay down there with your new little friends," he huffed, taking a left at the top and disappearing from sight.

Brom snickered, unable to forget how high a pitch his friend could hit when properly motivated. Guards, afraid of rats, where in Oblivion were the recruiters finding these boys. Brushing off his hands, he then set to the task before them, separating what could be of value and then turned over to the jarls possession , and what would be left where it was to be destroyed along with the house.

The previous occupant hadn't been seen for about thirty years, so it was long past time for their ownership of the property to be forfeited, and everything left inside to claimed by the hold and Jarl Nelkir. If Brom remembered right, the house had always been left alone, having never been put back up for sale or been gifted to anyone else since it's owner disappeared. He had heard that that person had been a thane, whether a man or woman he didn't know, and that thane had been something of a favorite to old Jarl Balgruff the Greater himself.

Shaking his head at the strangeness of it all, Brom started his task with relieving the bookshelves of their burdens, being extra careful with the old books. He set his loads down by the front door to be carried off by a wagon later in the day, and then walked over to search through the chest. He tried to open it, but despite the appearance of the chest itself, the lock on it was as strong as ever, not budging so much as an inch. Brom thought for a second about prying the thing open with his dagger, but deemed it as too much of a hassle. It would just have to be loaded onto the wagon and carried off to Dragonsreach with the rest, and let those up top crack the silly thing open.

Turning his attention on the chest of drawers at the foot of the stairs, Brom cocked an ear to the racket his comrade was making upstairs, hearing a small crash quickly followed by a large amount of cursing. He frowned at all the noise Jürgen was making, wondering if the boy was actually cleaning or just making an attempt to bring the second floor crashing down on top of him. Honestly, the boy may be a Nord, but Brom was a Nord also and even he had something of a sense of grace.

"Hey up there, you do know that some of this stuff needs to make it up to the castle in one piece, right?" Brom called.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," Jürgen called back. " It's just that some of this cluttered garbage refuses to cooperate with me! Honestly , Brom, if you think the bottom floor was bad, you should take a look up here. I could literally knit a new uniform out of the cobwebs up here."

"I had no idea knitting was a hobby of yours, lad. Just watch out for any rats gnawing on your toes while you're up there," Brom replied.

"…"

"…"

"…Fuck you, Brom."

"Sorry boy, I'm a married man. And besides, you got to be a girl to attract my attentions, not just scream like one," Brom retorted.

"YOU LOUSY, GOAT LOVING, SUNUVA-

CRASH!

Jürgen was interrupted by what sounded like a small avalanche coming down on the second floor, the sound of the crash itself shaking the entire the house from rafters to foundation, drowning out his string of cursing. A few bits of wreckage rolled off from the top of the stairs, bouncing off every one of the old wooden steps on their way down. Brom shook his head in exasperation. His charge really just did not have enough sense in his head to fill up a thimble.

"Well, lad, look what you've gone and done now. By the sound of things, I wouldn't be surprised if you brought a section of the roof down on you," Brom called from the foot of the stairs. "Well, we can only hope it managed to knock a bit of sense into you."

There was no reply from upstairs.

"Lad, you hearing me up there?"

Still no reply was forthcoming.

"…Lad?"

Brom was starting to worry, the seconds ticking by without so much as a curse word from Jürgen. The Nine knew the boy annoyed the living hell out of him on a regular basis, but that didn't mean he wanted him hurt. Well, not anything crippling maybe. Brom hesitated another moment before taking a tentative step up the stairs, his sight set on the top.

"Lad, I swear, if this is a damned joke, you had better answer me now, or you're going to be wishing the roof had gotten you!" Brom swore.

Still no answer, and Brom was pushed from worried to the brink of near hysteria, taking two steps at a time to reach the top. Making it to the second floor, he had to agree that Jürgen's earlier assessment of the place was dead on. The place was a complete trash heap! Piles of assorted junk and rubble occupied every corner of the landing, almost completely obscuring the doors to the only two rooms there. Jürgen could have been buried under anyone of those piles.

"Bloody hell, Jürgen, speak to me lad," Brom shouted, diving for the closest pile of wreckage, digging with a frenzy born of worry. Not finding his comrade at the bottom, he turned towards the next available pile. "Lad, by all the Nine, please be alright!"

"…_Brom_."

Brom whipped around, his attention drawn by a soft moan coming from behind a pile in front of him. Before he could take even a step in that direction, something small and solid sprung from the pile, hitting him square in the chest. Catching it in his arms, Brom turned it over to see…

…something with a _helluva_ a lot of bloody teeth!

"YEAAAARRRRRRGGGHHHHH"

Letting out a bellow, Brom backpedaled as fast as humanly possible, completely forgetting the stairs right behind him. For only a moment, he found himself in the air, almost floating. For the next few moments after that, however, he became very well acquainted with all fourteen wooden steps on his way back down to the bottom floor, landing with a tremendous crash on something hard.

Groaning in pain, Brom gingerly shifted his aching back and limbs, doing a quick assessment in his head of the damage. Thankfully, what he had at first thought was shattered bones, turned out to be only shattered bits of wood. It seemed that what he had landed on was the old chest from earlier, now nothing more than a smashed up pile of debris. Well, Nord beats wooden chest then.

Looking up the stairwell, Brom found his missing comrade standing at the top of the steps, hands on hips, and a grin wide enough to split his face in half, with not a single mark of injury on him. Not only did he appear to be completely unharmed, but he seemed to be almost tickled silly at his older friends expense. Cocking his head to the right, he pointed to Brom's chest.

"Fearsome as he looks, I'm pretty sure he can't bite you," the younger man quipped.

Brom looked down at his chest, and immediately got his friend's meaning. Sitting on his chest was an old troll's skull, all three empty eye sockets staring right back at him. Down the middle and sides of the skull were lines of thick, bony ridges, adding to it's fearsome and alien look. Though the bone of the skull itself was yellowed with age and grime, it's teeth still retained a bright, white shine, set in a permanent and savage grin.

Returning his gaze to the top of stairs, Jürgen could be seen holding his sides for dear life, no doubt aching with hysterical laughter.

"Ha! Y-you…should h-have…seen your face!" Jürgen choked out in between giggles.

Jürgen continued to laugh, desperately trying to breathe at the same time. Brom said nothing, merely watched his associate, not so much as saying a word about his current predicament. Just sat there and watched the younger man laugh himself stupid.

When the laughter had finally dried up, Jürgen straightened himself, bringing a hand to his face to rub a tear of mirth from his eye, stopping when he saw the look on the older man's face. Not angry, not surprised, not really anything. He just sat there, watching him, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the troll's skull sitting on his chest.

"Brom?"

Brom showed no sign of acknowledgement, just kept staring. His gaze then drifted down to the younger man's feet, his expression turning to confusion. Lifting his hand, he pointed up the stairs.

"I thought you hated rats?" Brom quietly stated.

Jürgen quickly shot his gaze towards his feet…and _ really_ wished he hadn't. Draped over his foot was quite possibly king of all rats, it was so big! Giving out yet another manly squeal, he viciously tried to shake the rodent off his foot, tripping over himself in his struggles.

"GET OFF ME, YOU MANGEY, FUR COVERED SPAWN OF HEL-!" was all he got out, before he too became well acquainted with the stairs.

Jürgen landed at the bottom in a tangle of limbs, not a square inch of his person untouched by bruises. Pushing himself groggily to sitting, he looked up to see Brom standing over him, the troll skull tucked in the crook of one arm. Jürgen couldn't tell which one of them had the bigger grin, but could tell they were both thoroughly tickled.

"Well, guess this makes us even now, don't it?" Jürgen said, rubbing his ribs gingerly.

"You'd think that, _buuut…" _Brom said, lifting the troll skull over his head with both hands, grinning like a manic, "not quite."

BAM

The older man brought the skull crashing down on Jürgen's head, knocking him flat, and raising a small cloud of dust from the floor boards. The young soldier groaned, wondering if this would count as being wounded in action, while his very skull felt like it was about to split in half. He looked up from his place on the floor, and through the blur, saw Brom staring at the troll skull in sheer amazement.

"Damn, not so much as a scratch on it," Brom muttered. He walked to the side of the stairs, grabbing one of the old chairs stowed under it. With exaggerated care, he set the chair right side up, and then dusted off a space on the seat. He set the skull down on the now clean space, adjusting the skull so its sight took in the whole room. All this he had done in an almost reverent manner, and, when done, he turned slowly to face his comrade.

"In all my years, I have never once thought I'd see something harder than your head, lad." Brom quipped.

Jürgen rolled his eyes, and then winced from the pain that lanced through his skull as a result. Attempting to push himself from the floor, he was about to give a scathing retort, when his hand landed on something, causing him to slip and smack his face on the floor. Cursing around a mouth full of dust and splinters, Jürgen righted himself, rubbing at his mouth sourly and looking around for whatever he slipped on.

Brom had ignored this entirely, having been busy polishing the skull that, as far as he was concerned, deserved to be named a holy relic of the Nine. Pausing a moment in his task, he looked over to where his partner remained on the floor, fooling with something in his hands. Setting his new best friend back down on the chair, he walked back over to the young man to see what he was messing with this time.

In his hands was a book, and the only thing that was stranger than the fact that Jürgen was willingly touching and holding a book, was the fact that unlike everything else in the house, it seemed to be perfectly intact and dust free. It was leather bound, the leather itself a rich burgundy color, with a matching leather strap wrapped around it, keeping it closed. From what he could see of the pages on the side, it appeared that they had hardly yellowed during the years, the pages having remained in almost their original white color. What really jumped out in his observations was the clasp on the leather strap, its shape being that of a small dragon curled up as if in sleep, the clasp itself being made of silver.

"Lad, where in Oblivion did you find that?" Brom asked, his eyes not leaving the book.

Jürgen looked up from the book, and then pointed over to the ruined remains of the wooden chest. "I think it popped out of their when you landed on it, Brom. It's a bit queer that in this entire shithole, this is the only remotely clean thing, don't you think. Not so much as a rat bite or anything." The young man said, handing the book over to his comrade.

Brom turned the book over in his hands, feeling the soft leather through his gauntlets. He found that Jürgen had almost been correct in his statement. The book was completely undamaged, saved for what appeared to be a small hole piercing the back of it. Brom stuck his little finger in it, and found it to be a little wider in width, and only going maybe a half inch in, leaving him to wonder what exactly caused the hole.

"Well, what the hell is it?" Jürgen asked.

"I'm not seeing any words on the outside, not even so much as a title. It may be a journal." Brom replied, his hand reaching for the clasp.

"Hey, whoa there! Are we supposed to be reading that? I mean, we're here to clean this place up and send this stuff to the jarl's underlings, right?" Jürgen asked, stopping Brom's hand just short of the clasp.

Brom shook his comrades hand off, vexed that now was the time Jürgen chose to develop a sense of professionalism. "Come on, lad, I'm just curious what's written here. We're also supposed to be using our own judgment on whether some of this junk could be useful or not. Anything could be written in here, or nothing at all. This could be a tome possessing ancient secrets of the magical arts, or just a book on Argonian cuisine. We need to _know_ for sure before we send this thing up to Dragonsreach. It's our duty."

Jürgen gave an involuntary shudder at the words "magical arts". "For both our sakes I pray it's just a cookbook," the younger soldier said. Almost all Nords shared a deep distrust of magic, considering it was mostly and Elvish weapon. And could one really turn their back on a person capable of tossing fireballs at random, or summoning Daedra from the depths of Oblivion itself. Jürgen gave another shudder.

"Well my boy, there's only one way to find out."

Stowing the book under his arm, Brom walked over to the stairs. Grabbing the remaining chair, he dragged it over to set it right beside the chair where the troll skull had sat, having watched the entire exchange in silence. Dusting off the seat, he set the book down, and made his way over to where a crate sat up against the wall. Gesturing Jürgen over, both men then grabbed the opposite ends of the crate. Carrying it over to chairs, they then set it down right in front of the chairs to act as a table.

Brushing off his hands, Brom then turned his attentions to the nearest bookcase, the tinkering sounds of him rifling through the shelves contents filling the small room. Jürgen watched his mentor awhile, till his gaze was inevitably drawn away to rest upon the troll skull. He was almost certain the thing was watching him, even if it had been dead for decades, its three empty eye sockets were now almost glowering a hole in his face. To Jürgen's mind, it seemed that it's hideous teeth were pulled into an almost mocking leer, as though it still remember their little exchange at the bottom of the steps. And thus an epic glaring match for the ages had begun!

"Ah, here we go." Brom turned away from the bookcase, his hands laden down with a few candles, the wax colored gray with dust. The wicks were old, but hopefully still useable, and the candles were quite thick, so if lit they then could have light for a good while.

Setting his burdens down on the crate, he then took his seat beside the troll skull, having transferred the book to his lap. Brom looked up to see the exchange between his charge and the troll skull, the two of them almost heating the air with the ferocity of their glares. Brom grinned.

"Have a care, Jürgen," the older man warned. "In an afternoon he's already tossed me down a flight of stairs and knocked you flat on your arse. I've never seen the odds being this grim!" The older man laughed down the glare his charge sent him, tickled as always by the young fool's pride. The fool in question opted to just sigh, making his way over to the chair beside Brom to take a seat.

"Whoa, lad, I'm afraid you're going to have to plant it elsewhere. Gregor has first claim to this chair," Brom said, sticking out a protective arm between Jürgen and "Gregor".

"…"

"…"

"…Gregor?"

"Yes, Gregor."

"Why Gregor?"

"Cause he looks like a Gregor," Brom said, stated as if it were one of the few well-known facts of the world.

Jürgen rolled his eyes skyward, silently admitting to himself that the name did indeed seem to fit the old skull. Of course he was too proud to ever say it aloud, so instead of arguing, he chose instead to sit on the bottom step of the stairs. Turning so he was facing directly opposite of Brom, and hopefully out of the sneering skull's line of sight, Jürgen then waited for his friend to begin.

Brom reached into the pouch secured to his belt, and pulled out a bit of flint and a taper. Drawing his dagger, he struck the flint repeatedly against its edge, causing small sparks to fly off the steel, until he finally had the taper lit. Stowing away the dagger and flint, he gently lifted the taper to candle, lighting its wick with a small popping noise. The glow from the candle lit up the inside of the small house with ease, the new light causing newborn shadows from the furniture and assorted bits of trash to dance along the walls.

Settling back in his chair, Brom then picked up the book, undoing the clasp with a small clicking sound. He opened the book in his lap, the leather along its spine creaking from years of disuse, and scoured the front page with his eyes. His eyes narrowed, and he began to frown, as if something was seriously bothering him. He looked up to lock eyes with Jürgen, his visage grim.

"Gods be good," Brom breathed, immediately catching Jürgen's full attention.

"What?" Jürgen asked.

"This is horrible!"

"What?" Jürgen asked again, fully on his guard.

"I…I don't know how to put this."

"For the love of Talos, man, _what_?!" Jürgen all but shouted.

"This," Brom said, tapping his index finger on the front page, "is by far the absolute _worst_ penmanship I've ever seen in all my years!"

Silence fell upon them like a thick quilt, neither of them speaking, just staring at each other over the crate. Jürgen's hands, which had been clenched at his knees in rigid anticipation, were now hanging at his sides, limp as eels. Even the grin on "Gregor" seem to slip off a bit, as if he too was at a loss as to why Brom chose that moment to bloody critique somebody else's writing.

"…"

"…"

"…You're a real hard bastard to get along with at times, you know this right?" Jürgen said in a quiet monotone.

"I'm serious, boy, I can hardly make out whether or not their using letters in here. It's as if whoever wrote this was suffering from palsy!" Brom turned the book around and set it on the crate, inviting Jürgen to take a look for himself.

Jürgen could only sigh, bending forward from his seat on the steps to look at the book. He found that he couldn't really argue about Brom's assessment, with the letters all swooped around more than one would recommend, with the words themselves looking as they were squashed together in effort to safe space on the page. What made it worse, though, was the fact that all of the lines written on it were tilting horribly, with the first word at the beginning of a line standing so much higher on the parchment than the word on the end of the line!

_Forget palsy, this person obviously had a little too much moon sugar in their sweetrolls_, Jürgen thought to himself. Aloud he asked, "Well, can you still read it?"

"I think so," Brom replied, reaching over and picking up the book, squinting down at the words on the page. "Ok, I think I have a name and a date here at the top."

"What is it then?"

"Cei…Cahi...," Brom said, struggling to make sense of the word. "Crj…Cristina?" Brom finished, looking up at his partner. "I think it says Cristina."

"That's an Imperial name! One for a woman, I think," Jürgen responded, smirking slightly. " And a pretty one, too, I'd bet. Is there a surname attached?"

"No, just the date of the entry sitting under it," Brom replied.

"Well, how old is this thing then?" Jürgen pressed.

Brom took a moment to squint back down at the page, and then looked back towards his partner, his eyebrows almost hitting his hairline.

"Says here this entry was made on the third of Frostfall…in the year 201 of the 4th era!" Brom exclaimed.

Now it was Jürgen's eyebrows turn to shoot up, and they stood no lower than that of his comrades.

"Damn, that books older than I am!"

"Aye, and considering this is the year 32 of the 5th era, that would make this little tome over thirty years old!" Brom continued, looking down at the wild scrawls with a look more akin to respect.

"What, now that you know that the books almost as old as you are, the scribbles don't bother you so much?" Jürgen teased, getting another glare for his trouble.

"I'll have you know, lad, that that was a big year for Skyrim's history, maybe even all of Tamriels's." Brom stated irritably. "That was the year when Ulfric Stormcloak chose to murder High King Torygg, setting the whole country against itself. Ulfric had been wanting Skyrim to break away from the Empire due to his own personal grievances, but to his supporters he said it was because the Empire was weak and would only serve to drag Skyrim down."

"That was also the year that Alduin, the World-Eater, had returned, and had threaten to destroy the whole world! Not bad enough that the fate of an entire country is at risk, but the fate of the entire world? I can't even begin to tell you how close we came to utter annihilation. Yes, lad, in that year, the fate of everything and everyone had hung on the barest of threads."

Jürgen clapped his hands together, realization having struck. "Oh yeah, wasn't the Dovakiin the one who put things right. After he defeated Alduin, didn't he then side with the Empire and defeat the Stormcloaks?"

"I'm surprised you remember your history, lad," Brom said. "What with the fact you spend most of your time worrying about whether or not Frecs is eyeing you up."

"Oh, you are _soooo_ bloody hilarious," was Jürgen's sarcastic reply. "Of course I know about the Dragonborn. I was _raised_ on the tales."

"Good, then you know that Whiterun was where the civil war took a turn in favor for the Empire." Brom replied. "And that the Dragonborn fought upon our very own walls, throwing back Ulfric's boys during the siege."

"Of course. Hey, Brom, weren't you in Whiterun during the Siege?" Jürgen asked, looking at the older man with hopeful curiosity, leaning a bit forward on his step.

"Aye, I was, and no, I didn't see the Dragonborn for myself." Brom sighed, Jürgen not being the only one disappointed by that statement. "I was only fourteen at the time, and so wasn't allowed to fight in the guard. From what I had heard when the siege was over, the Dragonborn had been at the front gate during the fight."

"Where were you?"

"Running around like a chicken with its head cut off," Brom snorted, the memory of the fire and smoke vivid as ever in his head. "Me and Pa had come a week earlier to inform the jarl about bandits terrorizing the roads north of the hold. Shortly after we had entered the city, the guard had closed and barred the gates, and every soldier in the city was preparing for the upcoming battle. No one was allowed in or out."

"A day after the lockdown, Ulfric's men were sighted in the hills to the south of the city." Brom continued, squirming in his chair, trying to relieve the tension in his sore back. "Wasn't long after that he had his catapults sending flaming pots over the walls. Panic broke out."

"What was the siege like?" Jürgen asked. "Had to have been more than a little exciting, right?"

Brom cocked an eyebrow at the younger guard. "Exciting is not the first word I would choose to describe. Horrific, terrifying, bloody, all of those words would be a better fit. You have to remember, I was just a scared kid in a city full of fire and ash, and I didn't even have my pa to rely on anymore."

"Wait," Jürgen interrupted. "What do you mean you didn't have your pa anymore? What happen to him?"

Brom's shoulders stiffened at the question, and looked down at the book in his lap. He took a moment before answering, tracing his finger lightly over the journal's pages, not looking up to meet his comrades eyes. "The thing you should know about catapults, lad, is that despite whatever the people who are using them do to try and hit a specific target, they don't really care whether or not it's a civilian or a soldier that gets killed in the blast."

"…Oh."

"Aye."

Jürgen squirmed a little on the step, severely uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone. No one wants to talk about how their parents died, least of all if it's because they were caught up in a battle they weren't even fighting in. Jürgen allowed the silence to stretch out for about a minute more before finally breaking it.

"I'm sorry to ask you this, Brom, but with your pa gone, how did you survive the battle?" Jürgen asked the older man, mindful of his reaction.

Brom finally looked up, surprisingly with a small smile stretching the corners of his mouth. "A scrawny Imperial lass threaten the general goods store that if he didn't hide me in his basement along with him, she was going to render him twice as useless as a man than he already was. Held a dagger to his crotch and everything."

"…"

"…"

"…pffft!"

Jürgen couldn't help it, he just had to laugh at that bit of randomness. The laughter exploded from him, making his sides ache and his ribs rattle, but he was beyond caring at the moment. While rolling on the floor in hysterics, he realized Brom was laughing along with him, their combined guffaws not only succeeding in driving away the somber mood from before, but also to rattle the very rafters above their heads.

"She sounds like one helluva woman, Brom!" Jürgen choked out through the laughter, barely managing to put himself back on his step properly.

"Aye lad, I know!" returned Brom, he himself barley managing to keep his seat. He reached over to where Gregor sat, the skull having been shaken during the loud bout of laughter, to turn him back around. The old skull's grin looked just a bit wider, as if it was also catching the humor.

Jürgen finally caught his breathe, now leaning back against the wall for support. Grinning over at his comrade, he then asked, "So, did you ever thank her. You know, for saving your life with the magic of implied castration?"

Brom snorted. "No, after the battle was over, I looked but I never saw her again. She either died in the battle or just left the city early. I hope it was the latter, for my life and the lives of my children are thanks to her."

Both men took a few more moments to catch their breath, before…

"Well, seems we got a bit off track with the history lesson and reminiscing and all that." Brom stated, readjusting the book on his lap. "We were supposed to be reading through this thing in the duty of our jarl."

"Oh yes, that was _exactly_ what we were doing." Jürgen scoffed. Leaning forward in his seat, he folded his arms in his lap, giving Brom his full attention. He spared a glance toward Gregor, and was surprised to find that the skull itself appeared to be eager for Brom to begin.

"Very well then. Let's see here," Brom said, once more turning his attention to the book upon his lap. After squinting down at the horrid scrawl and muttering to himself for a few moments, he finally began to read.

_Dear Journal_

_Well, I finally got a journal, just like Missy always told me I should. You'll never know, she'd say, when your old and gray, and your memory starts to fade, and your surrounded by your grandchildren begging you for stories about your days as a young woman on the road, this book could come in very useful. I told her that was stupid, because besides the fact that I have yet to find a man worth longer than three minutes of my time, I never plan on having brats, let alone grandbrats. But I digress._

_I've had this journal for about three weeks, but have yet to find the time to properly utilize it to its full potential, besides smacking that drunk, handsie bastard at the Tap and Tack across the face last week. What part of the word no did the guy find so hard to grasp? I swear, men have a much harder understanding of language than the rest of us sensible people._

_Speaking about the Tap and Tack, journal, I feel that I should inform you that I was in Bruma last week, and have now crossed over the border into Skyrim. Why go to Skyrim, you ask? Easy money, I answer. You see, you may find this hard to believe, journal, but there aren't very many opportunities for a seventeen year old beauty living in Bravil. Well, any "preferable" opportunities, anyway._

_Basically my career choices were narrowed to two options: guild thief, or tavern whore. Admittedly, I don't have any of the desired skill sets to be useful in a thieves guild, and they were not willing to teach, so that pretty much eliminated that choice. Also admittedly, I wouldn't WANT to know any of the required skill sets for the second choice, nor would i ever be willing to learn! _

_So, after much contemplation, I have decided to take my chances on the road. My earlier mentioned friend, Missy, was devastated when I told her what I was planning to do. In the end, however, she accepted that I needed to do this, to find true happiness, and my place in life and all that. Honestly, that girl and the real world are complete strangers. I'm going wherever I can make a steady pay, preferably with a salary in the quintuple digits. I know expecting something that big without an ungodly amount of effort put into it is a bit unrealistic in itself, but hey, go big or go home, and home was never really an option for me. _

_Well journal, it seems I've gone a bit off topic. I was telling you that I had recently crossed over into Skyrim, and so far, I'm happy with my choice. Considering the varying degrees of hell everywhere else is going through, the province furthest in the north struck me as the more promising option. Hell, I even like the landscape better than the one back at home. _

_The tall, imposing mountainsides, standing almost proud in their ability to make one dizzy just to look upon them. The thick, rolling forest, almost utterly impenetrable to outside transgressors, so full of trees are they. The rushing waterways of the great northern lakes, always racing by at almost unbelievable speeds, the waters completely crisp and clean._

_But truly, journal , what most demonstrates the almost savage beauty of this land, is in its incredible abundance, of clean, white, snow… _


End file.
